Japaniak Writes Stuff

This is where I plan on putting most of my written work.

[japaniakwrites]

The Thunderstorm

The night before Hael Cohen slapped Macy Zimmerman across her face and drew blood, a spring storm rolled in from the prairie far beyond the lakeshore suburbs. Thunder clapped a half-mile from the house and rattled the windows in all the bedrooms. Hael crawled into her sister’s bed. Nothing else could harm her there, and she and Salem protected each other the way they always had.

Hael knew the sound she made against Macy’s face must have been similar. Blood surfaced on her cheek where there had been four fingernails, the skin screaming red under her hand. Macy may have yelled, since her mouth opened wide as she covered her cheek in shock.

Hael had no remorse about it. Not even as Coach Franklin yanked Salem off of Kate Gutierrez or pulled Hael away with a more delicate hand and led all four of them to the principal’s office. Macy glared at her from the other side of Coach Franklin’s wide, dark blue pullover. Hael stared blankly back at her.

It was a slow-burning kind of torment that led Hael to leave her handprint on Macy’s face. Back in August, they were assigned to the same homeroom, science class and American history class, plus the same lunch period. Being paired with the same groups of students for that many periods was common, but Macy and Kate took an immediate, morbid fascination with Hael.

At first, Hael had wondered if it was her hair. The way her wiry blonde curls stuck out in all directions was something she embraced, but it didn’t match the way most of the girls at school straightened their hair. Macy even regularly asked if she straightened it when she thought Hael wouldn’t notice she meant it mockingly. Other possible causes crossed her mind as well: Her last name couldn’t be more Jewish, she knew she talked strangely compared to everyone else, and she had erroneously spent the first few weeks of school in the special education class even though she didn’t need it.

The real reason struck her when Kate told something to Macy at lunch one day, covering her hand so Hael couldn’t read their lips. The biggest reason was because they thought she couldn’t understand them at all.

Hael navigated the world through a combination of lip-reading and speech therapy, plus the occasional help of a sign language interpreter. It didn’t take long for Hael to realize then that Kate and Macy had probably been talking about her behind her back since the beginning of the year, asking her questions and then stepping away to laugh about how she answered them.

Hael was frustrated enough a few times to cry in the arms of her mother, father or Salem, but she mostly had put up with the torment until the day she struck Macy.

That day, she was already staying at school late, helping paint a mural in the hall outside the gym while Salem was at figure skating practice across the street. She had noticed Macy and Kate watching her from further down the hall, staring at her as they spoke, mouths covered again.

At the time, Hael had just sighed, shook her head and reached for the bucket of orange paint from her spot on the hole-mottled tarp. There were three other students and the art club supervisor working on the mural, and the girls wouldn’t bother her while they were all there painting a scene of a firebird rising from out of the concrete blocks.

She could lose herself in the design she made and watch it come to life for a while. She did it every time. The phoenix always rose in front of her, spitting embers as it fluttered its wings in flight from the caldera of a stirring, dormant volcano. From the ashes in its wake would come the first verdant blossoms of the new spring, gasping as they finally found the sun and bloomed pink and gold and blue.

Still, even after the firebird was freed from its volcanic prison and most other members of the art club had gone home for the day, she could see both girls standing there with their gladiator sandals and Louis Vuitton handbags, watching her. She thought she had seen the word ‘retarded’ pass Kate’s lips at one point--a word Kate drizzled into her vocabulary as liberally as she did ranch dressing on pizza. The rest of the conversation was lost. Hael was paying more mind to picking up the tarp and leftover brushes, plus the prospect of catching Salem in her last few minutes of practice.

The tarp dragged across the floor like the beige train of a wedding dress when Hael carried it and the brushes toward the bathroom next to the gym. Ignore them, her father had said to her a few months ago. A lion would only regret getting involved in the affairs of the sheep that jumped on it while it slept. Her orange- and red-stained paint brushes required more attention. She rounded the corner toward the girls’ bathroom.

The tarp flew over her head and she felt someone shove their hands hard between her shoulder blades. Hael stumbled forward, shouting in surprise. There was cold, hard tile beneath her and the tarp, plus a firecracker of pain whistling through her elbows after she landed on them. The lights beyond the holes of the tarp went black. ----- It will be a sunny Thursday in October when Hael Cohen, in her freshman year at the Savannah College of Art and Design, sees a group of students signing to each other on a bench outside Haymans Hall. What friends she’ll have made already won’t know how to sign, but they all like old anime and Mexican restaurants, so she’ll decide to stick around. Still, she will think it would be nice to have friends who could sign, who wouldn’t eventually ask why she talks that way, who will understand what it means to feel like you’re looking at the crowded world from the outside.

She will stroll over to them with her tote bag of notebooks as they talk about a professor named Pulaski and introduce herself, asking if they live near campus and smiling with excitement and hope rising in her chest. One of the girls will start to introduce herself as Gina and tell Hael where she lives, but she’ll be stopped short.

One of the boys, one with dark hair and glasses, will ask with a serious look on his face, “Are you Deaf or hard of hearing?”

Hael looks at him nervously, wondering if he’s boring a hole into her soul through the dark blue of her eyes. “Hard of hearing,” she finally answers.

The boy will glare at her like she’s stolen money from him. “Sorry. Deaf only.”

Gina’s eyebrows will furrow. “Xavi, she could join us...”

“No.” Xavi will glare at Hael even more. “We’re Deaf only.”

Speechless, Hael will walk away alone, trying to swallow the rapidly forming lump in her throat. She suddenly will find part of herself wishing that she couldn’t hear the thunder clapping outside her window as a child, or even the still-muted distilled sound of her sister screaming after she won the right to compete in the ISU Junior Grand Prix at fourteen years old. She will have only read horror stories about this before, of the death threats sent to deaf musicians or debate about whether the hard-of-hearing should marry hearing people or deaf people, but none of them will ever like more than a thunderstorm beyond a distant hill until that moment.

That will be before Gina gets on her bike and tracks Hael down to see her again. ----- There was an invisible badge of honor Hael wore at school on the breast of her pastel-colored cardigans--one that she had earned for being surprisingly sharp-tongued. Yet, as she sat on the floor in the inky black of the bathroom, frantically texting Salem with her phone gasping on 2% of its battery, she wept. Macy and Kate had made fun of her before, and she had always just insulted them right back and called them things like “horse face and rat face,” but it had never gotten physical.

‘Please come to the bathroom by the gym. Macy and Kate shoved me in here and I can’t find the light.’

Sent.

‘I’ll be there in 2 minutes.’

The rough fabric of the tarp pooled around Hael’s legs as she stood, knees trembling. She sobbed again, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her pink cardigan.

A small, red-hot spark of rage smoldered in her chest. Hael had never fought anyone before, but she figured now was as good of a first time as any. She knew she’d get in trouble. She didn’t care.

Reaching through the pitch, Hael found the concrete wall. Running her hand slowly along, she felt a blast of warm air on her forearm--the hand dryer. A few inches to the right were the sinks, the top of the trough above the faucets flecked with pools of cold water and spilled foam soap. Then there was more concrete wall as she crept along, knowing the tarp was nearby and not wanting to worsen things by tripping over it.

Hael felt the plastic of the light switch beneath her fingertips. She fumbled with it for a second before flipping it upward, illuminating the room. Then, the door swung inward.

There Salem was, still breathing hard and with a lone pinball of sweat trekking from her dark brown bob down her temple from two hours of practicing her free skate. Hael hugged her anyway.

“Are you hurt?” Salem signed, pursing her lips.

“Not physically,” Hael answered, looking away. “I landed on my elbows, but it doesn’t really hurt. I wouldn’t mind getting back at those two though.”

“I’ll take care of them--”

Hael shook her head and grabbed Salem’s arm. “Let me have a swing at one of them.”

Salem looked at her for one second, then another. “Hael, you’ll get in trouble if you do that.”

“I know,” Hael replied. “I’m okay with that. They’ve been bothering me all year because they think I’m weaker than them. I need to prove to them I’m not, even if it means I get in trouble.”

Concern colored Salem’s brown eyes. Finally, she said, “Okay. But you shouldn’t have to prove anything.”

Even though Salem still smelled a little like sweat and felt sticky, Hael welcomed the next long hug from her sister. Salem was growing taller and faster than Hael and was the strongest girl she knew. She pulled the door open with one hand and looked back at Hael as they set out to deliver justice. The tarp and brushes could wait.

[japaniakwrites]

Star-crossed

The sky was as dark and deep as the sea, dusted with stars from one end of the horizon to the next. In that sense, Alexei thought it was perfect--he’d invited Wolfgang out to spend time together for the day, and now he’d get to do one of his favorite summertime activities with her as well.

There were few times where he felt so at peace as when he was gazing up at the night sky, but holding Wolfgang’s small frame against him made it even better. The way her slender fingers felt against his hand and the smell of her hair put that night in the running for one of the best of his life thus far.

Together, they’d been trading stories of the constellations from one end of the summer sky to the other. Alexei had told her the story of a giant wolf who ran across the night sky with a human girl on his back as he helped her escape to freedom, his pursuers a distance behind him in a cluster of nine stars. There were dozens more stories he had, coined either by fellow Dreamlanders or by his teacher just a few years earlier, but he wanted to hear her interpretations. After all, he wasn’t even sure if Nightmarians saw the same constellations at night.

“See that group of six or seven with the milky way running through it?” he asked. “What does that one look like to you?”

Wolfgang remained silent for a moment, as if she were considering it. He looked over to her, watching her violet eyes shift from one star to the next.

“Well, I always thought they were two lovers, a sorcerer in training and a young lady named Yeris and Aniella,” Wolfgang explained. “And for most of the year, they were separated by a veil of magic set in place by Yeris’s master, who wanted to keep them apart. I always imagined he was a good trainer, but was particularly mean about allowing the sorcerer-in-training to see his lover.

“But then there always was a time of year where the master’s magic weakened,” she continued. “Right around midsummer, the veil would fade enough to be passable and the two would be united, if only for a short while. Then they would make as much of it as they possibly could.” She sighed, content. “They only usually had about a month, but they fit a lifetime of love into that little span.”

Alexei looked to her, listening intently. Dew was clinging to his fur and he was slightly cold after letting her wrap his overshirt on top of her dress, but her story had captured him along with her beauty. Even months after they had first met, she still found new ways to amaze him--clearly she had put more thought into this than most people would have.

“Wolfie,” he said softly. “Is that your interpretation, or the one that’s most common in Nightmaria?”

She turned her head. To Wolfgang, there was something special about this boy’s smile that she couldn’t quite describe. Rarely had she ever seen one quite like that--she hoped it’d never fade.

“Mine.”

A blanket of warm, comfortable silence settled over them. After a few more moments, Alexei leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, not putting much force into it but letting it linger for a few long, precious seconds. He felt her fingers in his hair, sliding to the back of his head and down to his neck and responded by resting his hands gently on her arms, even after they both pulled away.

He was glad to make the most of that moment with her in his arms, whether they had a month or a year or a century.

[japaniakwrites]

In Vino Veritas

Happy birthday, kikiface!

Rustling bushes were seldom a good sign on a Saturday night. When half the campus was out drinking to its heart’s content, that sometimes meant trouble was about to fall.

At least that was Alexei’s experience with it. He’d seen numerous things appear and transpire in those hedges, ranging from random Dreamlander students deciding to use them as a mattress to entire pranks being hatched and carried out by Nightmarian kids in a matter of a few hours. During the week, the most action they got was the occasional raccoon hiding in them with stolen garbage. Not so on the weekends.

This particular weekend, with a few inches of snow on the ground, the rustling in the bushes was just as unsettling as ever.  Alexei had gotten up from beneath the blanket pile he made for himself not knowing what it could have been. What he did see when he pulled back the blinds was worse than anything he could have expected.

There was Calico, crunching through the snow on the front lawn and brushing listlessly against the bushes. Alexei stared at him, his ears tilting sideways against his head. Calico seemed far from home, but here he was in a coat with a fur-lined hood and the bite of the January air apparent on his cheeks and nose.

Of course, Alexei couldn’t simply forget everything that had happened between them. After all, he recoiled a little every time he thought of how Wolfgang had responded to his recount, and he still felt like he had been robbed for no reason at all. Even with the ecstasy—and how good things felt in the moment—that was a hard feeling to ignore.

Calico lifted a nearly-finished cigarette to his lips and took a drag off of it. Then he flicked it into the bush and looked up at Alexei, smiling at him

Alexei watched him for a moment longer. Did Calico really know where he lived? He’d never been to the house. The jackalope shuddered slightly. He stepped over to the door, getting the unshakeable feeling that something was off about how Calico was suddenly here out of nowhere, disrupting one of those precious moments where he had several episodes of the crime show “Bismarck” lined up and was sustaining himself on grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Perhaps it was just disappointment.

A gust of January wind swept into the doorway, draping its shroud over Alexei’s arms and cheeks as he looked to Calico through the doorway. The Nightmarian student looked up after a few moments, still not saying much. Something about his silence seemed off--during the few times Alexei had spent with him, he hardly seemed to stop talking. Finally, Alexei was the one who spoke up.

“Calico?” Alexei asked. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Good question,” Calico answered. He scaled the steps, coming face-to-face with Alexei. Now he could smell it—that slightly sour, thick scent beneath a layer of stale cigarettes. Wherever Calico had been before he showed up on Alexei’s doorstep at eleven at night, he’d been nursing the bottle hard.

Alexei shifted, letting Calico pass. If anything, he just wanted to let him out of the cold for the sake of being courteous, but even then Calico didn’t seem like he was going to stop.

Calico toed off his snow-caked shoes, sending the powder onto the edge of the beige carpet. His coat soon followed, being flung on top of them as he stepped through the living room, past the sofa.

On the TV set, police chief Mary Jensen was in a shooting match with someone. Several pops rang out followed by a grunt, but Calico only glanced at the screen for a brief moment.

“Which room is yours?” he asked, pausing at the end of the corridor to look into each bedroom. Finally, he looked into Alexei’s room with its dark red comforter and mounted rack of herbs on the opposite wall. “This one? ‘Kay.”

Alexei paused the show and followed after Calico, equal parts confused and irritated at the way things had suddenly gone. Just as he had shown up out of nowhere next to him in an alley back in September, here he was again, sitting down on his bed and looking around like he was considering moving in.

He strode to the doorway, standing under the frame as Calico remained silent. Apparently he was taking in absolutely every facet of the room that he could see, right down to the cracks in the drywall that had been there since before Alexei moved in. It almost made Alexei self-conscious about the supplies he had for his animism classes; all the herbs and charms he needed as a shaman; the photos he, Sasha, and their father had taken on a trip to an island in the north; the gold Magim David he kept on his dresser; Delilah, his banjo. His soul and personality suddenly felt far too exposed to someone who had recently played him like a top-forties song.

Something about Calico’s smell, the way it slowly crept through Alexei’s room until it met his nostrils, had changed from last time. The testosterone was practically threatening to punch him in the nose, even if it was blended with a twist of booze—there had probably been at least a few girls involved in the hours before Calico had shown up in his yard.

He pulled out another cigarette and put it between his lips, then started fishing through his pants pocket for his lighter.

“Nope,” Alexei said sternly as he leaned against the wall next to the door. “I’m not letting you do that in here.”

With a disappointed sigh, Calico shoved the cigarette and lighter back into his pocket. Then he got up and wandered back out of the room, past Alexei and toward the kitchen. Alexei stood in the doorway for a second, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. When he heard the refrigerator door creak open though, he pivoted and started toward the kitchen.

Calico was holding a plastic bag of leftover vegetarian bacon Alexei had made a few days earlier, examining a piece of it before biting into it. His eyebrows shot up.

“Wow, is this fake?” he asked, his voice light.

“Yep,” Alexei said curtly. That was the first thing he chose to say after suddenly dropping in? He didn’t sound offended, but of all the other things that he could have done or said, it felt surreal.

Calico looked to him again, glancing at his pajama pants—Alexei had opted to pair an old shirt with a pair of cotton pants adorned with strips of bacon and eggs. Annie, one of his roommates, had gotten it as a joke gift for him before she went home for winter break.

“And yet you’re wearing that.”

“Right, and I don’t eat bacon,” he said. “What’s your point?”

“I eat bacon,” Calico said, smirking at him.

Alexei didn’t give him the satisfaction of any of the disgusted noises he thought about making in that moment. It was too easy to give in.

As Calico picked through Alexei’s leftovers and some chicken strips Aslan had made the week before, the Dreamlander student kept wondering how Calico even knew his address. He’d never been over here before, and Alexei hadn’t given him so much as a phone number during their previous encounters.

Calico bit his second chicken strip down to the end and meandered once more past Alexei. This time, Alexei followed him back to the bedroom, opening his mouth slightly before he spoke.

“Uh, Calico?”

After settling down on the bed again with a few pieces of fakon sandwiched between two chicken strips, Calico looked up. He took a bite of his breadless sandwich and stared at Alexei with a lazy sort of expectancy.

“How did you know I live here?”

Calico grunted and swallowed. “’Cause I stole your wallet.”

Alexei stared at him for a moment, stunned. His wallet had been missing since the previous day after he had gone to the gym for a few hours, and his student ID and his driver’s license were missing along with it. However, there were more incriminating things to be found in there that also worried him—a few photos of Wolfgang and of his family, and even more embarrassing, an unused condom that was a few months away from expiring.

“You stole my wallet?!” Alexei snapped.

“No, I didn’t steal your wallet, you dumb fuck,” Calico groaned, his voice deep and raspy. He was a double-bass on its lowest notes, even when he was being insulting. After a few seconds, he looked up at Alexei. “You’re not a dumb fuck. Sorry. No. It was a joke.”

“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain how you know where I live,” Alexei said. “Also, how did you know someone jacked my wallet?”

“No, yeah, I took your wallet,” Calico finally said. He pulled it out of his pants and tossed it back at Alexei, who caught it before it could hit him in the chest.

Alexei sighed, pacing around the floor while he tried to come to grips with it all. Even with the fur on his feet absorbing most of it, the carpet felt rough and dirty beneath his toes.

“So let me get this straight,” Alexei said. “You came all the way out to U of D’s rec center, went into the locker room, found my pants in there, took the wallet out, and left without anyone batting an eye?”

Calico took another bite and nodded. “Absolutely.”

Alexei pried the wallet open, checking to see if the five-dollar bill he had was still in there, along with his photos and his two IDs. The condom, however, was gone.

“Why’d you take my stuff?” Alexei asked. He could feel his cheeks heating up by the second as each word left his mouth.

“What?” Calico looked confused for only a fraction of a second. “Oh, you mean this.” Fishing through his pocket, he pulled out a worn out little plastic wrapper and flicked it at Alexei’s chest. “That’s like, seventh grade shit right there.”

Alexei glared at him. It wasn’t worth pursuing, but he was still pretty annoyed by the whole thing. He remained silent for a few moments, trying to make sense of why all this was happening and what he had done to deserve this unwanted reminder of what had happened just a few months earlier.

“Why’d you come clear out here, anyway?”

“There’s a party down the block,” Calico answered. “I went there, got a little hammered—”

“A little?”

“Shut up,” Calico said. He was smiling, at least. “Anyway, I got a little hammered and saw you lived close by and figured I’d pay you a visit.”

Alexei stared for a moment. He could still taste that chalky little pill on his tongue, along with Calico’s skin and teeth and sweat and lips. His skin still burned like fire sometimes at the thought of Calico’s hands beneath his shirt. He could also remember Calico telling him that he had gotten Wolfgang to break off their relationship so that he could have Alexei instead. He had said it the same way someone would describe how they managed to cut their commute home by ten minutes.

His chest still burned white with rage.

“So even after everything you did, you wanted to come out here and see me,” Alexei said flatly.

Calico leaned back. “You’re still on about that, huh?”

“Don’t say that like I’m mad you never paid me back five dollars or something!” Alexei sighed heavily, resting both hands above his head on the door frame. “I don’t like being played, Calico. It’s happened too many times to count now.”

The Nightmarian student stared up at the ceiling, fixated on the red gash of crayon meandering around the ceiling fan. After looking at it for almost twenty seconds, he still couldn’t determine if it really was crayon. It was dark enough to be blood.

“Then why do you keep gravitating towards us?” Calico asked.

The jackalope’s eyes grew wide. “Pardon?” 

“It’s like you’re forgetting what you’re dealing with every time you come into contact with someone from the other side of the fence,” Calico said. His eyes, obsidian on amber on obsidian, were still fixed on the various shadows on the walls cast by Alexei’s books and stacks of sheet music he never put away. “If you touch a dog that has its teeth bared, do you expect to not get bitten?” 

Alexei just stared at him. Rage was growing low in his gut, smoldering with a few hot flames beneath the lump in his throat.

“And then do you expect other dogs to sympathize with you afterwards, especially if you’re not their master?” Calico continued. “It’s not going to happen, Alexei. If you lie down with dogs, you’re going to get bitten. Benjamin Franklin said that.”

Pondering Calico’s response for a moment, Alexei shook his head slightly. “He did not.”

“Yeah he did.”

“You said it wrong,” Alexei said. “The real saying is, if you lie down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas.”

Calico waved his hand and let his head drop, hitting Alexei’s pillow with a hard thud. “Okay, I don’t care that much,” he said. “You get my point though?”

Alexei frowned. He knew he could’ve expected some of the things that happened to him, like Wolfgang barely lending him an ear when he found her again after Calico had slept with him. The things before that though, other things he didn’t even want to think about in Calico’s presence, were still too vile for him to accredit to human nature. Perhaps, he thought, he simply couldn’t wrap his mind around the sort of evil to be found in those corners of the street, so close to where he slept at night.

“I guess,” Alexei finally said.

“Great!” Calico said. Alexei waited for him to speak again—it sounded at first like he would continue. Instead though, Alexei just heard heavy breathing as it built a slow crescendo into proper snoring.

Groaning, Alexei shuffled back out to the living room. He would have to settle for the couch that night. Even as he stretched his legs over one arm and rested his head against the other, Calico’s words rippled through his mind. Unfortunately, he got the point loud and clear, and it became even louder as he thought of their night back in October or the way Wolfgang didn’t seem to react at all to his talking about it with her. Forgetting was something he wouldn’t be able to do. Not for a while.

[japaniakwrites]

Spree

His blade slides through his opponent’s throat so quickly that he doesn’t have time to react to it. Still at the apex of his swing, he falls with sooty-black blood oozing down his neck.

Although he hears his first opponent fall, Gabriel doesn’t stop moving. After all, there are twelve more where the first came from, and most of them look significantly tougher. Mercurial but ever-flowing in his movement, he bypasses each one with a single slice to the throat or thrust through the gut. There’s a rhythm to it that he quickly finds. Step, step, slice. Step, step, stab. Step, step, parry. Step, step, slice.

It’s the greatest waltz he knows, and Gabriel can’t help but think it’s better than any lover he’s ever had or the way their fingers ran through his golden hair, any rain he’s felt fall across his face, any chili pepper that has ever passed his lips. One by one, the demons fall in his wake until the entire platoon is disintegrating at his feet, having met his blade.

It’s during these precious moments, he thinks, when the electric shock of another enemy snuffed ripples through him, that he feels the Lord’s power surging in him. He is so much more than just his messenger. He shakes the blood from his short sword with one flick of his wrist, tingling from the kill. The sword is sheathed. 

He walks away from the encampment with a pleasant jolt in each step he takes, deciding to cap the victory with the scenery of spring thawing the leaves. It’s a lovely March day, after all, and he can’t wait to see what wonders this forest has to offer.

[japaniakwrites]

Dependence

I just wanted to get a quick bite to eat before going back to work.

I was almost kicking myself for going back to school on Sunday. I’d gone under the knife three days earlier for the second time in two months to get rid of the margin of tissue that had surrounded my pre-cancerous tumor. Everything left in my chest seemed to come fighting back with knives. With each step I took, the impact seemed to echo up past my knees and hips and into my back, bouncing into the site of my surgery with enough pain to make me wince.

The icepack I wore felt like armor. It was tied around my neck and back and was tucked between my denim jacket and my polka-dot dress, easing some of the pain in my heavily bandaged breast as I tried to navigate through the dining hall.

I got my nearly-cold chicken fried steak sandwich with some pale lettuce and a tiny slice of tomato with a pile of greasy onion straws. My breast stung in protest, but I even managed to get the sandwich into a container with some lukewarm, crinkle-cut French fries so I could bring it back to work with me.

The drink dispenser in my college dining hall was identical to the ones found in just about every fast food joint in America—it had a selection of sugary sodas and weak, raspberry-flavored iced tea to choose from, with a small lever for water attached to the latter. I only wanted water that night.

Lifting the plastic cup to the machine proved to be almost impossible. I couldn’t even lift my arms perpendicular to the rest of my body, let alone reach even higher to push the lever down like I normally could.

The first time I tried it, I struggled to hold the cup up with my right hand and reach for the lever with my more affected left hand. My muscles ached up my shoulder and shrieked in my breast, the pain raking coals beneath my bandages and the ice pack. My arm shook. It wavered enough that I bumped the lever for the iced tea.

Cold, raspberry-flavored sugar poured down my hand and covered the denim of my jacket. I pulled my hand back as much as I could. I reassured myself that yes, I was 21 years old, I could get a goddamned glass of water by myself. Frustration burned in my throat and face anyway, despite the reassurance.

I tried again. The second time, I tried to hold the cup as steadily as possible, desperate to just get my water and leave. I’ve never been the type of person who embarrassed very easily, but being reduced to struggling after years of being self-sufficient otherwise left me wondering just how many passersby had noticed me struggling.

The answer came soon enough. A boy nearly a foot taller than me came up from the left side and set his tray down.

“Do you need some help?”

I wanted to say no. I could do it by myself. Sure, he probably saw the icepack under my jacket, but I wanted to pretend for a few moments that my breast wasn’t covered in bandages; that I could lift my arm and rotate it in a full circle, let alone lift it above a 45 degree angle. Such a huge part of me wanted to save my pride instead of taking it with my tramadol like a grown woman.

“Yes,” I finally said. “Thank you.” I could hear the defeat in my own voice as the words came out. I stepped to the right, letting him fill the cup a few millimeters short of the brim with water and put a lid on it.  I never looked at his eyes. He handed it over, and I set it on top of the container before smiling politely up at him and scurrying off to the cashier so I could leave.

The walk back to the office, a quarter of a mile uphill, was treacherous in itself, but the embarrassment at my sudden dependence was enough of a distraction.

[japaniakwrites]

Impending

In a matter of one month, the stinging pain in Icha’s armhad gone from being completely unbearable to a dull ache when he moved it too much. He was finally able to get out of Alexei’s bed and walk outside that morning, feel the cool morning air bite at his skin and let the grass slide beneath his feet.

He would probably be able to manage hunting again soon enough—he’d have to shoot right-handed and keep setting traps, but it was doable.

Work was another matter entirely that he didn’t want to think about right then. After all, Alexei rested against him, his hair down and wild past his shoulders, his eyes shut while he tried to sleep for just a few more minutes. He was vulnerable in a hundred different ways—some of which were Icha’s fault—but still he stayed, trusting Icha and leaning into him.

Icha reached over and ran his hand through those long curls. He was ready to go home. However, the smile that cracked on Alexei’s face as he stroked his hair made him want to stay even longer, even if he couldn’t.

[japaniakwrites]

Joking Along

Today in the paper, there was a humor columnist who wrote about her cousin being diagnosed with cancer. She talked about how she didn't know what to say because she was used to bringing the humor to situations, but now she was at a loss.

That got me thinking.

I was fortunate in that the tumor in my breast was only borderline cancerous, gigantic though it was. I only needed two surgeries. My oncologist mentioned radiation therapy in passing, but assured that I wouldn't need it with where I was at.

That said, my experiences are mine only. I don't know what it's like to have to go through more extensive treatment or the mental burdens associate with it. Maybe I can offer some perspective on this though, knowing what it's like to have that albatross around my neck.

When we first learned of my tumor, it was terrifying. I was so scared that it was all that occupied my thoughts. In a way, it still does since I'm reminded of it almost every day, when the weather changes or when I take my clothes off. I became panicky and apologetic over everything.

The only way to really make the situation not seem quite so bleak was to laugh about it. Making jokes eased the anguish. What was even better though, was when people would make jokes and laugh with me.

I realize that it's almost counter-intuitive for some folks, and not everyone in this position might want that, but that is what made my experience a lot easier to bear. After all, when you spend the majority of your time at least moderately stressed about a massive tumor in your body, being able to joke and laugh is like getting your first drink of cool water after spending all day working in the sun.

Tumors have this strange effect on the people around you. The minute you admit what's going on, the minute the words "oncologist" or "tumor" or "partial mastectomy" pass your lips, people's faces change. It's like magic. Instantly their eyes go wide, their brows shoot up, and within the next three minutes there's a 98 percent guarantee that they'll ask, "Are you okay?"

Obviously you very well might not be, but how you answer that is up to you. After this process has been repeated ad nauseam, however, it becomes another dehumanizing factor. Pile it in with the letters from this pathologist or that one, the tests and charts, and you start to feel like you're a number instead of a name.

My best friend confirmed why she is my best friend in how she reacted in the days after I found out about the tumor. She said the fact that I had some mutated cells didn't change who I was as a person, and things stayed pretty much normal from there*. She was supportive in ways most other people weren't -- she made me feel normal.

In fact, she actually made fun of me and gave me shit for it -- a fact for which I will forever be grateful. I am not made of porcelain; I am flesh and bone and Teflon and ideas. The way she treated reminded me of that.

The fact that she laughed with me, along with my mom laughing with me, made me feel like I was human. I was able to keep my sanity. I was able to go into those appointments every few weeks without being a complete wreck.

I want to write to this columnist and tell her all of this, with the added disclaimer that her cousin might be handling his diagnosis differently. For now though, I hope everyone realizes the effects that humor has in these situations. Again, I can't speak for everybody, but it certainly lifted me up when I was going through this.

------

*Aside from me calling or text messaging her while I was recovering from one of my surgeries and high off my ass, that is.

[japaniakwrites]

Ivory Towers

Forty emails sat in Moniek’s inbox that morning. Eleven of those were from his wife, five were from his boss, three were from clients he had taken on the side, nineteen more were from various stores nowhere near him offering coupons, and the one he opened first just had the word “ma” in the subject head.

‘racquetball at four o’clock?’ read the message. It was typed out in all lower case, in rushed Hungarian.

Moniek didn’t wait to respond to it, even if it was a one-word reply. He had been trapped in the ivory tower of his home office for the better part of a week and had been waiting for Laszlo to invite him out again.

Even the gym was a breath of fresh air. He relished in the stale scent of cigarettes in his blue Ford pickup, the wind whipping into his window. It felt so different from the Lysol smell that seemed to choke out everything in the house, including the aloe plant he had been trying to grow in the guest room upstairs.

The gym was crowded that day, but Moniek could recognize that familiar green Toyota in the snow-dusted lot and went inside, changing into his sweats and safety glasses and stepping into the empty court with his racquet.

“Laszlo!”

A younger man near the back of the room bounced the racquetball a few times and looked back at Moniek, grinning at him. They met halfway and hugged, immediately greeting and chattering in Polish while Mr. Jerawski stretched.

Despite being 10 years older, Moniek was able to keep up with the Hungarian and score some points against him. All the while, between rounds or when someone would get hit in the shoulder or belly or face, they kept talking. His lungs gave out, but he still kept talking like he hadn’t been able to speak in weeks.

Laszlo brought out words in him like nobody else could. Not even his wife. He got Moniek to talk about Packers games and quiz shows and city council meetings he had heard about in the newspapers—all things that he didn’t try to discuss around his wife. He spoke naturally, like he was excited, and laughed at Laszlo’s jokes.

Today was no different. Even as Moniek was diving for the ball before it could hit the floor, he kept answering Laszlo’s questions.

“So you think it’ll be a bad year for the Red Wings?” Laszlo asked. His Polish wasn’t terrible, but even he noticed how heavy his accent was. Moniek didn’t seem to mind though.

“Definitely!” Moniek said, grunting and swatting at the ball. “They’ve been playing terribly and haven’t been putting the money where they need to.”

Laszlo dashed to the left, trying to hit the ball as it bounced off the back wall. “How many do you think they’ll win?!”

“Five or six.” Jerawski started to run backwards as the ball ricocheted back into his half of the court. “Maybe seven if they really work!”

“Okay, I guess there aren’t any bets in my future then!” Laszlo was joking. Moniek knew he hesitated buying lottery tickets.

“You’d have better luck betting on the Sharks,” Moniek said.

They played in silence for a moment, continuing their rally until Moniek finally scored. Laszlo served, and the ball hit too low on the wall and rebounded towards him. He dashed forward, trying to save it by swinging it straight upward.

Not thinking, Moniek dived after the ball, crashing into Laszlo and send him crashing to the ground.

Laszlo groaned in pain and rolled onto his back, taking Moniek’s hand when it was offered.

“That was a hinder,” Laszlo said, laughing.

“I know. Sorry about that,” Moniek said quietly.

“It’s okay, buddy.” The Hungarian wiped some dust off of his gym shorts and looked over to his friend.

Moniek looked back at him. His knees were dirtied and red, but he started bouncing the ball and getting ready to serve again, eerily silent for a few long seconds.

“Are you sure?”

Laszlo nodded. “Neither of us was hurt and it’s going to be my point anyway. No big loss there.”

Laughing nervously, Moniek went and took his place at the back of the court again. However, he went quiet again after a few moments and finally spoke up again when Laszlo was about to serve.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” Moniek said. When Laszlo stopped preparing for the serve and turned around, he swallowed and continued. “I know this guy from back home in Radom, Wladek, and he’s married to this lady—”

Laszlo raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is she hot?”

“She’s pretty, but that’s not the point.” He wiped some sweat from his brow. “Wladek told me that they got into an argument a few weeks ago and she threatened to destroy all these books he has if he doesn’t tell her where he’s going when he leaves the house. He said she insulted him a few other times and slapped him once before, but any time he tried to tell someone about it, they just laughed at him. I’m not sure what to say.”

Laszlo was at a loss for words. Moniek could never tell what he was thinking by the look in his brown eyes or even by watching his mouth—it all depended upon what he said. Though Moniek found it unnerving at times, usually Laszlo had good, but straightforward, things to say when he finally spoke up.

“Well, if she’s threatening him, then he needs to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Laszlo said, taking a few steps towards his friend. “In fact, he might want to think about leaving altogether.”

“But he has to wear the pants for them, doesn’t he?”

“So? She’s hurting his feelings on a regular basis and tearing him down,” Laszlo said. “It doesn’t matter who’s wearing the pants in the relationship. Wives shouldn’t hurt husbands, and husbands shouldn’t hurt wives, and everything else in between.”

Moniek went quiet and gulped, trying to get rid of the marble-sized knot in his throat. “I’ll tell him that. Thanks, Laszlo. Can—can you serve now, please?”

Laszlo let the ball fly as he and Moniek continued their rally. He was familiar with Moniek’s stories by now—his own wife had a more attentive emotional relationship with her mirror than she did with him, and she had the tendency to check on him at odd hours during the day. There was no way he could get Moniek to say it outright though, not being as tight-lipped as he was.

Moniek didn’t want to admit the things his wife said to him—he had always thought Eliza’s comments cut into his skin like broken glass, but she wasn’t actually hitting him. Besides, most of the time she was right. Usually when it happened, he had made some sort of mistake. Her anger was justified.

“Does he need someone he can call just in case?” Laszlo asked, swinging at the ball and knocking it upward. “I can pass my number along through you if it helps, right?”

Moniek didn’t immediately respond. His shoes pounded and squeaked against the gym floor as he went after the volley. There was sweat on his brow and he was panting.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “If you write it down, I’ll give it to him when I see him this afternoon! Let’s just finish this rally first, okay?!”

Laszlo grunted. The ball was flying toward him, having bounced off of Moniek’s wall and hit the front wall before ricocheting toward him. With it still in midair, Laszlo swung the ball toward the lower part of the wall, sending Moniek charging for it to no avail.

Moniek picked up the ball, having lost by three points out of eleven, and laughed.

“Okay, now that was just cold,” he said.

“I play to win, my dear Pole,” Laszlo replied, laughing. He went to the back of the room and picked up his wallet, pulling out a business card. Moniek recognized it as one he passed out when he was looking to get extra money from translation commissions, but it also had his address and home phone number printed on it in glossy black ink. “Here, you can pass this along to him. Tell him I have a place for him to sleep if he ever needs it, but he has to call me first so I know he’s coming.”

Moniek nodded and half-smiled. “Thanks, Laszlo.”

Laszlo hadn’t thought much of it that day. After they were done, he just changed back into his street clothes and his wool overcoat and went back to his apartment in Zion, navigating the inch of lake-effect snow that had fallen on the streets and settled in for the day with a mug of decaffeinated tea and a few hours of “The X-Files” episodes he had missed.

Until Christmas Eve, he had all but forgotten about the business card he gave to Moniek. He had gone to sleep on December 23rd fully expecting to spend the following day nursing his hangover from the Sumedix company Christmas party, only to wake up at 4 a.m. on December 24th to a phone call on his landline.

“Hello?” he answered in groggy English.

“Laszlo, I need some help,” the person on the other end whispered.

He squinted at the clock on his desk. Quarter past four. “Who is this?”

“It’s Moniek,” the caller answered. “Please listen. I know this is sudden, but I really need your help.”

Laszlo didn’t know what to say. Part of him was worried about what had happened to prompt Moniek to do this. They were best friends; why did he not think he could tell Laszlo this? That didn’t matter though—he needed to give Moniek a safe place now that he was asking for one.

“You sound nervous,” Laszlo said.

“I—I am, okay?” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

[japaniakwrites]

Nine Centimeters

Yesterday, in the J.C. Penney fitting room, I saw myself in the mirror. I broke down into tears and stared at my own chest.

The support bra was snug. It was only snug on the left side, but just snug enough that I was falling apart and staring at myself in the mirror. I tried to imagine my left breast wasn't there, but it was difficult with a piece of fabric digging into my chest. I couldn't do it. I backed into the right wall and took a deep breath.

I took off the bra and hung it back up on its plastic hanger. Then I stared at myself in the mirror again.

It's hard to imagine something isn't there when it's staring you right in the face. Sometimes, when you know it isn't going to be there four days from now, it's even harder.

Nine centimeters. A croquet ball is nine centimeters in diameter. An orange is also about nine centimeters in diameter. Nine centimeters is the length of some women's high heels. The scratch on front of my car left by a flying rock is nine centimeters.

The tumor in my left breast is nine centimeters.

It causes a difference of a whole cup size in my breasts, and it made me think for the longest time that this was normal. I couldn't feel the other end of it, so I thought it was just a part of me. A part of aging. That was before the ultrasound made it painfully clear that I was lying to myself.

The tumor comes out on Tuesday. All that will be left of it is a scar from the incision just below my areola. Half my breast will be gone and that scar will be my parting gift.

The bra sat right otherwise, but it was digging into the problem area.

I haven't hated my body this much since I was fourteen with low-rise jeans and shirts that didn't fit me right and hair that didn't crunch like the other girls' did.

[japaniakwrites]

A Roasted Portrait

Note: This is a stand-up routine I wrote for one of my characters, Asha, who is aspiring to become a comedienne.

There was this incident that happened at breakfast recently wherein my father nearly burned the house down, and I think it sums up just about everything that goes on in our home on any given day. Both of my brothers were there, and they had brought their significant others, both of my dads were there: Vlad was reading the paper, and since he treats all pork products like they have Ebola, Moniek was cooking some bacon and pancakes since Vlad’s eternal struggle is to teach him how to cook.

I should probably mention though, in the 15 years I’ve known him, the trickiest thing Moniek has ever made was a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I’ll give him credit, milk can be tricky and sometimes it spills out.

So he’s standing there, cooking this amazing, thick-cut Hungarian bacon, and I don’t know what happens, but in about three-quarters of a second, suddenly flames are shooting out of the frying pan. Think Old Faithful, but with flames that are literally about to touch the ceiling. In that moment, like half of my family imploded.

Now, Moniek is such a stereotypical Pole that it’s literally painful. The very first thing he shouts after realizing that he set the bacon on fire is “KURWA!!” and then he takes a step back and gets into this squatting position like he’s getting ready to tackle it but isn’t sure how to approach. “THAT FIRE WON’T GET PAST ME!”

Now, keep in mind also, I’m the smallest person in my family. My oldest brother, Sasha, is about seven feet tall and could probably eat me in one bite if he really wanted to, and I think he currently holds the record for the world’s most stacked rabbi. He competes pretty regularly with this guy we know from Italy and they’re neck and neck. But anyway, Sasha sees that the stove is shooting fire like a dragon, and he walks up to it, stands next to Moniek, and just starts panicking and yelling at this raging grease fire like he’s a Sims character.

“OH MY LORD! IT’S A FIRE! GO OUT ALREADY, FIRE! STOP! BAD FIRE!”

And then there’s my brother Alexei, who for some reason thinks to run out to the garage during this conflagration in the making, comes back with a bucket that’s just covered in loose, gray fur—I’m not sure if we had a cat at some point or if something just crawled into that garage-bucket and died, but he got it and just started filling it with water in the sink.

Of course, if he’d thrown water on it, that probably would’ve just turned our mini inferno into a true geyser. We don’t let him use the stove anymore.

And then there’s Vlad, who up until this point has been sitting there, doing his crossword puzzles like a normal 97-year-old man, and he just looks up at these fools shouting at this fire shooting out of the frying pan like that’s a regular occurrence. “Oh! Zat eez new. Let me know if you need help zere.”

Keep in mind, he’s looked at someone like that before when they were in the backyard threatening to set a raccoon on fire. Nothing fazes him. No-thing.

And then we finally get to the sensible people in this family. Here’s Sasha’s wife, and she’s getting ready to do the smart thing and call 911 before it gets any worse. I’ve come to the conclusion that she is one of the sole owners of common sense in this family, and that’s just because she’s not our blood relative. If she and Sasha ever have kids, that kid is royally hosed.

And of course, here I am not helping since my twelve-year-old ass is just sitting there at the table with my pancakes, taking all this in like a sponge. We call this Sunday morning and I want to remember it so I can tell all you guys. I have a bad reputation in that house.

After that though, she came into the situation like a pissed off, pregnant angel of destruction from on high: my sister-in-law, Kato. Keep in mind, Kato’s about seven months along; she’s pretty convex at this point and has started using her belly as her own personal table, but she is just tired of our bullshit for once and just wants some pancakes, but hers are only halfway done.

So she gets up and starts doing the waddling thing all the way across the kitchen, somehow manages—I still don’t know how she did it—to push my both of my giant brothers and my father out of the way, and turn off the stove. The flames slowly start to dissipate so there’s just some smoke and really well-done bacon sitting there in the pan, and she gives them the Look.

If Kato were a superhero, the Look would be her way of shooting laser beams at everybody in the way. And bless this woman, she’s been in my life since the day I was born and she saved the kitchen, but she is hopping mad at this point. Lady just wants her freaking pancakes and for that stupid bacon smell to be gone! Who could blame her?

For a minute, everything goes silent. I think I can hear a couple of birds humping each other on the roof and they’re just about to finish. Nobody wants to cross Kato, especially when there’s pyrotechnics involved.

Finally, Vlad speaks up, because he doesn’t fear regular humans.

“Kato,” he says, “I think you should go outside now. The smoke is too much for the baby.”

She glares at him instead, takes a pancake off of the done pile, takes a bite out of it, and walks outside to eat it. No words to Alexei, or anybody else. She just goes out into the backyard while we try to clear away the smoke.

Of course, the men in my house usually have common sense. They’ve gotten this family out of some pretty bad situations before. Moniek’s still on salad duty though, since that’s what he can handle.

[japaniakwrites]

Tumbled

Note: Inspired by this piece Kiki made. Thank you again Kiki!!

He hadn't been expecting her that day, but Alexei was happy to see Wolfgang anyway, even though she was carrying a handful of still-wet pebbles in her hands.

Alexei was never sure how Wolfgang managed to sneak over from the Nightmarian side of the hills, her hands full of the smooth little rocks, completely unscathed. He knew he couldn’t do that—not without taking a few spills and maybe getting mud on his face. She was graceful where he was accommodating yet awkward, and it always amazed him.

“Look what I brought!” she said, smiling.

Alexei’s face lit up immediately and he got up, getting behind her to look over her shoulder. “Whoa! Where did you find those?”

The look on his face made every minute of dredging up the mud worth it. “They were in Thieves’ Lake.”

Thieves’ Lake had been named long before the border disputes, called such because the stones at the bottom would shine like gems in a thief’s hoard. It seemed to fit, even as the light of day slowly faded—the stones shimmered even as Wolfgang moved her fingers and sat down on one of his cushions.

The headwaters of the river that ran past his home were across the border, but most of the stones rolling downstream were those from a tributary within his own kingdom.

“Aren’t they lovely?” she asked.

Her smile was still enough to turn any overwhelming heat or cold he felt into warmth. Months after they started seeing each other, she was still his fireplace to return to after a long, hard day. He squinted at the stones in her hands, slowly picking through them.

There was one that was banded pink and glimmering in the light, while others were as black as pitch and smooth beneath his fingertip. Another still was green with white flecks. He couldn’t quite recognize any of them, at first deciding that one was sandstone and another was onyx, but then he decided against it.

He looked at Wolfgang, his ears slightly turned back and his eyes alight. “They are, but what types of stones are they?”

“Well—here, hold out your hand,” Wolfgang said.

Alexei did as she said and she poured the stones into his hand. He settled next to her and watched as she shifted through the pile, pulling out the inky black stone.

“That’s obsidian, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded. “There is a volcano near the headwaters. Some people in Nightmaria think they’re good luck.”

“Really?”

Wolfgang laughed. “Yeah. It is a bit of an urban legend, but they think it helps you find people who are supposed to be in your life.”

She set the stone aside, looking for some of her favorites. Alexei looked at it and then looked back up at her again.

“Think I could make something from this?” he asked. “Maybe something you could put around your neck.”

She smiled and reached up, kissing him on the cheek. “I would love that, Alexei.”

[japaniakwrites]

Bees

Vlad almost couldn’t believe his eyes by the time September rolled around. After working harder than he had ever seen him work, Moniek had lost the gut that he had accumulated over the past ten years and he looked sexier than ever before. Having traded it for a set of muscles, Moniek had also earned a more chiseled face and legs.

Vlad knew what he had to do when he saw him that morning after Moniek weighed himself and shuffled downstairs for some scrambled eggs.

At least it was his day off so he could plan an elaborate setup like this. After dropping Asha off with Susana, he made sure he had everything he needed to give Moniek a little surprise.

Most of it involved things that they already had around the house or had bought at a sex shop on a jaunt to Europe right after they got married—specifically a pair of handcuffs and a black leather jockstrap Vlad had bought online a few weeks ago.

Ambushing him was only somewhat tricky. Moniek worked in his home office most of the time and had the tendency to hole up for several hours at a time when he was on deadline, so Vlad ended up having to wait upstairs in the bedroom until he went upstairs into the bathroom—usually a sign that he was finished. Casually, as if he had a question about laundry, Vlad called him into the bedroom.

“What’s up, hon—?!” Moniek had been cut off when Vlad grabbed him gently by the shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed, sitting on his thighs. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve been working hard all this time,” Vlad said, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and keeping his wrists pinned with the other. “I’m going to reward you for that today.”

They had had this discussion before. At some point after they started having sex, Vlad had admitted he didn’t mind bondage, and Moniek told him that he was really curious about it. Since then though, they hadn’t really had time to act on it.

“Reward me?” Moniek asked.

Vlad started to lift Moniek’s arms above his head and strapped the cuffs to his wrists, keeping them pinned and keeping him in place. He grunted in confirmation and started to snap open the button on Moniek’s pants, pulling them all the way off and dropping them onto the floor.

“You worked so hard to lose all that weight, and we finally both have some time to do this, so I wanted to try it out,” Vlad said. “Want to?”

Moniek looked down at himself, watching as his cock bulged in his boxers. The cuffs were sealed tight and Vlad was keeping his wrists pinned above his head. Admittedly, this had been a fantasy of his ever since they had gotten married—he had wanted to completely surrender himself to Vlad, in part because he knew he could trust him that much. How could he resist?

“Yes,” Moniek said, lifting his hips so Vlad could remove his boxers.

Vlad smiled and hooked his fingers under Moniek’s dark blue boxers, pulling them down and freeing all eight inches of his cock. It wouldn’t be made to last, but Vlad couldn’t help admiring how Moniek looked in this state—his face was flushed and he was bound at the wrists, and his cock was twitching. Vlad almost wanted to get his mouth around it, but he knew he needed to focus.

Reaching over to the nightstand, Vlad reached over and pulled out the leather jockstrap. “I can’t wait to see you in this.”

Moniek didn’t protest as Vlad pushed his legs into the jockstrap and worked it up his thighs. It felt incredibly tight, and his erection was straining against it, pressed against his belly and unable to move. He loved it though. The leather was smooth and cool against his skin and it was constricting him in just the right ways, and suddenly the idea of wearing this thing forever didn’t seem quite so bad.

After a moment, Vlad flipped him over onto his belly and massaged his back, slowly working his way down. Moniek relaxed as he did, even as Vlad reached into the drawer next to the bed.

They always joked about how they kept a bottle of lube on the left side of the drawer and Moniek’s copy of the Bible on the right. Removing the watermelon-flavored lube from the drawer, Vlad popped it open with his free hand and, finally finishing the massage, poured some onto his fingers.

Moniek missed the feeling of Vlad’s gentle hands on his back, but he knew he was preparing the lube and warming it between his fingers. The thought excited him somewhat. He and Vlad didn’t usually like anything even remotely related to anal, after all, but the bondage situation made Moniek more willing to try it this time. Craning his neck, he looked back at Vlad, watching as he warmed the lube.

Just as he turned to look up at his bound wrists, Moniek felt Vlad press his finger into his entrance and did what he could to unclench, but it still felt somewhat uncomfortable and made him gasp. His finger was warm at least, and Moniek was soon able to relax into his pace.

For a moment, as Vlad pressed in even further while he tried to find the prostate, Moniek thought to himself that they didn’t do this often enough. He was almost uncomfortably tight around Vlad’s finger, and he couldn’t seem to get the prostate until a moment later. Then he gasped and grabbed onto what little of the pillow case he could with his hands bound, pushing into Vlad even more.

“Did I find it?” Vlad asked, applying more lube to a second finger and then pressing it gently inside.

Moniek nodded. “Yeah, you found it,” he said, rocking against him. They both were comfortably silent for a moment while Vlad kept thrusting into him and they found a steadier rhythm that massaged Moniek’s prostate and didn’t make Vlad’s hand feel quite so cramped.

“You know dear, I learned something interesting the other day,” Vlad said. “Did you know that honeybees and killer bees are essentially the same?”

“I—uh, I actually didn’t,” Moniek grunted, feeling that second finger brush against his prostate. “How does that work?”

Vlad changed his angle slightly, trying to get a better position to make Moniek gasp again. As much as Vlad enjoyed taking Moniek from the front—he liked seeing his face, after all—he did get enjoyment out of watching Moniek’s now-trim ass rocking back and forth with his fingers.

“Well, as it turns out, they’re just different breeds of the same species of bee,” Vlad explained, trying to ignore the cramps in his hand. “And the Africanized version is just more likely to be defensive. They both produce honey though, and Brazil was trying to make more of it, hence why they exist.”

Moniek smiled into the pillow and raised his eyebrows, only to squeeze his eyes shut again when he felt Vlad rub his prostate harder. Maybe it was because Vlad always said them in Russian, and there was something in the tone of his voice when he didn’t have to worry about how his accent sounded, but Moniek loved these conversations.

“See, I—ah! There!—I didn’t know that!” Moniek responded, his arms trembling. Vlad was supporting him with one hand beneath him now, tangling his fingers in the hair on his belly. He had always loved that feeling of Vlad’s fingertips there, even 30 pounds ago. Now it just felt even better—he knew he looked great and felt the part, too.

Vlad laughed. “You just learned something then,” he said, adding a third finger. “Now, did you know that they die when they sting something?”

“I did,” Moniek panted. “Vlad?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Touch my dick,” Moniek said.

“You’ll have to ask more nicely than that,” Vlad said, smiling. He was starting to move his hand downward anyway, but stopped short of touching the cock that was peeking out of the jockstrap. Moniek’s breath hitched with anticipation and he squirmed and whined, just wanting some relief.

“Please, Vladimir, I just want you to rub my dick!” Moniek said, still laughing as he said it.

What shame was there to feel with Vlad? Even though laughing probably wasn’t the sexiest thing to do, Moniek couldn’t help it and didn’t mind. Vlad’s fingers tickled after all, and he realized just how loud he was begging. His erection hadn’t flagged at all, either—Vlad still had three fingers working his ass to keep that from happening.

“Good,” Vlad said, also laughing. He finally stroked the tip of Moniek’s cock, then slid his hand into the jockstrap and wrapped his fingers around him. “Are you getting close?”

Moniek gasped and nodded, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath getting more sporadic at the sudden contact. He didn’t want to speak; only to feel Vlad’s fingers around him and inside him until nothing was left untouched. His belly was almost too warm now from all the touching, but he didn’t want any of it to end.

As always though, it ended too soon for his liking. Moniek shuddered in pleasure when Vlad put more force into his thrusts and yelled something unintelligible, his toes curling and his face flushed. Vlad’s hand was still stroking him, even as he came all over his own belly and the sheets. He even stroked him past the end, helping him through the orgasm as he panted and gasped.

He couldn’t see for a moment, but he knew his head was still against the pillow and Vlad was carefully pulling his fingers out, leaving him feeling oddly vacant. He craned his neck to look at his husband and smiled, laughing a little.

“Did you like that?” Vlad said quietly, rubbing his back again.

Moniek nodded and strained to look at Vlad’s crotch, then finally flipped over so he could look at him. “Apparently you did, too.” To illustrate his point, he shifted his foot so he could rub Vlad’s erection through his pants. “Please take the cuffs off, dear.”

Vlad bit his lip and inhaled sharply as Moniek rubbed him, then reached up and undid his cuffs, setting them aside on the table. Not missing a beat, Moniek shifted over to sit between Vlad’s legs and kissed him while he unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down.

Normally, Vlad would’ve told him that he didn’t have to do that, but he knew better by now.

“I can’t believe you have the energy for that right now,” Vlad said as Moniek pushed him onto the bed by his shoulders.

Moniek chuckled a little and pulled out Vlad’s cock, not commenting. His eyelids felt heavy and he’d probably fall asleep shortly after he brought Vlad off, but he just wanted that dick in his mouth. It was easier than talking at that point, so he licked the shaft, starting down near Vlad’s balls and only stopping when he reached the tip. The entire time, even as he took the tip into his mouth and slowly took the whole thing into his mouth, he kept those green eyes on Vlad’s face.

“You spoil me,” Vlad said, panting and tangling his fingers into Moniek’s hair. “You’re doing a good job though, dear.”

Moniek didn’t respond—he didn’t want to pull it out yet. He knew it though. Be it with oral or with exercise, he knew he was doing well.

[japaniakwrites]

An Exchange at the Water Tower Plaza

“Nemnogo bol'she, chtoby sleva ot vas!”

Nobody walking through the plaza around the Water Tower really knew what the little man outside the tourism office was shouting about. All they knew was that he was yelling in Russian, shouting over the engines of the tour buses and the confused chatter of German tourists, and loud enough to scare some of the horses waiting to pull people down East Chicago Avenue.

Shouting he was though, at someone who was either very far away or simply not there. That he was doing it in Russian was also of slight concern, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Teper' voz'mite odin polshaga vpered!”

The police across the way at Water Tower Place seemed to have their hands full with other things—including but not limited to five panhandlers outside the Top Shop across the street and a growing line of cars with Ukrainian flags billowing out of their windows—but they did stop to give the man a confused glance.

“Prekrasno! Teper' ostat'sya tam poka ya ne vyyasnit' vysotu!

One officer in particular, his eyes bleary near the end of his shift, noticed him as he pulled out a smart phone. Anything more and he would have to warn him about disturbing the peace, but he didn’t seem drunk and was surprisingly well-dressed for another madman reeling down the Magnificent Mile.

“Ya skazal otdykha tam! Ya pytayus' vyyasnit', vysotu!”

The officer took a step towards the intersection, not sure what the short, bearded man in the blue plaid tie was doing, but not concerned enough to go over and warn him of anything.

In that moment, someone in the line of cars slowly lining up on Michigan Avenue heard the man’s shouting and honked their horn at him. Suddenly, a bespectacled woman with blonde dreadlocks poked her head out of the sunroof, a Ukrainian flag still in her hands and her face red with anger.

“Hey! Do you really want Putin to take over Ukraine?! Imperialist jackass!”

The man looked over at her, frowning. “No! I’d say Putin can suck my dick, but he’d probably bite it off with his vampire teeth! What are you even on about?!”

“What are YOU on about, you sexist pig?! Why are you shouting at us like that?!”

The man balled up his fist and held out his phone. “I’m talking to my partner! We both hate Putin, but his English sucks and I want him to understand what I’m saying!”

“Yeah right!” she shouted. “You’re probably just as bad as—”

“Mariah!” someone inside the car shouted, “We’re getting ready to turn.”

She stuck her middle finger out at him, glaring at her with all the ferocity a 110 lb. white woman could give. The Honda Civic started to turn down Chicago in a wide arc.

“By the way!” he shouted as the car got into the intersection, “I’m Polish! Not Russian!”

He didn’t get to see her full reaction, but she had started giving him the most embarrassed look he had ever seen. Granted, he had been speaking Russian, but he didn’t feel the need to tell her that. Still looking on at the exchange, the police officer stepped back towards his friends by the newspaper dispenser, figuring that the man didn’t mean any harm.

The man started to walk away, falling in line with a much taller, blue-eyed man who appeared out of a throng of tourists.

“Chto tol'ko chto proizoshlo?” the taller of the two asked.

The smaller man simply shrugged and took the taller man’s hand, and they started to cross the street.

“You were almost to the very top,” he said, his green eyes wide with wonder. “That’s almost 460 meters.”

The taller man smiled. “Really? Let’s celebrate then!”

With that, they slipped into an Italian restaurant behind the Top Shop, away from the public’s eyes so they could enjoy each other’s company once more.

[japaniakwrites]

Under the Sun

Dawn came when Calico ransacked his house and burned like a hot blade against his throat, those rows of teeth flashing at him in a devilish grin. Alexei was left breathless at the sight and knew he had to see the sun in his eyes again.

The sun was overhead when he fell into a dream and, knowing that his princess would be safe in Calico’s hands, he finally sighed and relaxed a while.

Dusk finally came when Calico returned, weary and carrying a broken world on his shoulders, and forced Alexei to deliver the final blow to his heart.

[japaniakwrites]

Punching Bag

Note: This is a look into the mind of a father who is angry about a woman raping his son and fantasizing about seeking revenge against her. It is graphic and it was written in a rush. You have been warned.

The tape constricted his hands, but he had stopped feeling it five minutes earlier. Stepping up to the worn punching bag dangling from the ceiling by a single chain, he stared at it for a moment. It had seen a lot of wear before, but this was his first time with it.

Vlad could still feel a lump in his throat from an earlier dream. It was one where he and his sons were happy—three men living in a house and busying themselves with their daily lives. There were no real troubles in that dream, aside from bills and snow that needed shoveling. It was a world where pain never bound them and he could embrace both of his sons before they went off to school each morning.

That world was too far away now.

Grunting louder than he would’ve liked to, Vlad rammed his fist straight into the bag, letting it swing back a few inches while the pain radiated through his knuckles and his wrist.

Resting for a moment, he finally saw her. Maybe she was just that teenaged girl who looked like she had only recently started wearing a bra and was desperate to get the money she needed for her madam, but he saw more than that. She was a few years older now, with more curves, a few gray hairs she hid away with dye, and a look of contempt towards him and anything to do with him. Even still, there was more to her that he saw, especially when he put his fists up again.

In Halla, he saw someone who didn’t even belong in hell. He saw the tramp who thought it right to use someone he loved as a pawn in her own game. He saw her smirk and whip out those claws she called fingernails and he saw her wings spread and she flew straight at him, looking for that line she had drawn in his throat all those years ago.

That was when he swung and hit her right in the mouth, knocking out a few of her teeth.

Caught off guard, she reeled back for a moment. He took those few precious seconds to kick her straight in the chest and knock her to the ground, watching her land on her back with a gasp. The wind was knocked straight out of her lungs. He stepped towards her as he struggled, finally balancing on top of her knees to keep her in place.

He always wanted to look into her eyes. For a time, Vlad had wondered if she had the eyes of a rapist, or if her eyes were just as empty as his son’s when he finally found him.

However, when he remembered his son’s eyes and his silence, he decided that he didn’t give a single fuck about her eyes unless they were gouged out of their sockets. After all, he remembered so many things before he even remembered the color of those eyes—how his son was covered in his own blood and couldn’t move his arms or breathe very deeply, how he remained so silent for months after that, how he refused to even look at or touch his own father’s hand, how Vlad found a note from him and had to talk him off the edge of a mountain. Vlad cared so much more about hearing his son’s voice and the smile he’d never see again because of her.

Before he could move in for the final blow to the neck though, she struck back, grabbing him by his throat and poising her free arm to strike. He always grabbed her throat in return, prepared to break her neck before she could slit his throat. After all, they both knew that whoever made a move first would be met with a swift end soon after.

It was one of those fights he was always battling out in his own mind, forever locked into a stalemate until he could figure out the best way to stab out her shriveled heart. That moment was fleeting though, and for all his knowledge, he never seemed to find the moment that would bring his son’s old self back home to him.

He punched at the bag until his exposed fingers were red and raw and there was a dull ache in his feet, but it never cured his son of the problems she had placed upon him. Releasing his anger was a private victory; something that she couldn’t take away from him. He could destroy that punching bag for hours and walk away from the gym with something of a smile afterwards. This would be something he could do again sometime.

Alas, Vlad would always walk away, ultimately defeated. He couldn’t destroy her like she had destroyed his son.

[japaniakwrites]

Forest (stripper au)

            It was the hunger for a change of pace that had brought Vlad to that little hole-in-the-wall strip club in Boystown one snowy night. The need to drink and to forget about his recent breakup had proven to be reasons enough to drink a few vodka and orange juices, but the original plan soon fell flat when he saw one particular dancer take the stage.

            Vlad wasn’t sure what made him pull his wallet out faster—the fact that he could see the outline of his sculpted ass or the way he looked at him when he turned towards Vlad and got onto all fours. Skulking towards him with green eyes like a hungry tiger eyeing up its prey, the young man smirked at him. Either way, Vlad found his hand extending towards him, a hundred dollar bill in hand.

            Smirking even wider, the stripper slipped the bill into the waistband of his panties and motioned for Vlad to follow him.

            Vlad let the short man lead him to the private booth in the back, smiling a little the whole way. Just before he started, hovering over Vlad’s lap, Vlad had to ruin the moment and open his mouth.

            “What’s your name?”

            He started down on Vlad’s lap, rolling his back and his hips into Vlad, never once breaking eye contact with him. Leaning into his ear, he smirked. “Monique.”

            Vlad looked up at him. “Mine’s Vladimir Petrovich Dyakov. Now tell me what your real name is.”

            The stripper seemed surprised, even as he took Vlad’s hands in his own and ran them over his chest. Vlad wasn’t prepared to kiss him, but it happened anyway—a little gentler than he expected it to, with his hands tangling into his hair. Even as he pulled away, he kept his face so close to Vlad’s, giving him a perfect view into those forest green eyes and that crooked little smirk.

            “It’s so close to my real name,” he said in Russian so fluent and so clipped that Vlad’s spine tingled. “Moniek Jerawski.”

[japaniakwrites]

Con Fuoco (concept story)

Rome is such a lonely place when it’s raining. The water floods between the cobblestones and forces both Roman and tourist alike indoors, and Cal can see it all from his perch on the edge of his apartment roof. Even the refugees from central Africa that normally hawk knock-off designer sunglasses and three-euro umbrellas have retreated inside, fleeing the deluge.

            Cal welcomes the emptiness and the darkness—after all, there isn’t anyone around to find his body. There aren’t any small boys around to scream at the sight of his broken bones in the street, and there aren’t any old women around to try and rescue him.

            They’d probably have celebrated when they saw that a scumbag like him had gotten rid of himself, anyway.

            His dirty blond hair and his windbreaker cling to his body, and he stares down at the street once more. An old Peugeot creaks through the street, and Cal sees his chance. In this moment, he can get rid of the burden he’s been carrying all this time and finally escape from the horrors he’s seen.

            “Ehi!”

            “Stai ci e non muoverti!”

            He looks around, wondering where the feminine voice is, and why she’s telling him to stay there and not move.

            Looking down again, he sees a woman in chef’s whites disappear into the apartment below, vanishing just as quickly as she had appeared. The door to the building clangs shut, and Cal leans back. He still wants to end it all more than anything else, but he’ll let her talk. Her burdens are probably lighter than his, anyway. What’s a little more baggage when he’s already being crushed by everything he’s seen?

            It takes the woman exactly one minute and fifty-six seconds to storm up to the roof and pull him away from the edge by the collar of his windbreaker. Cal gasps for air until she finally releases him.

            “Che era quel per?”

            She towers over him and raises her eyebrows at him. Admittedly, his Italian is atrocious, shitty even—is it his horrible sentence structure that’s making her look at him like that?

            “Were you about to jump?” she asks in English.

            Cal looks away. Her gaze is like the blinding glare of an angry god. There’s something odd about the look in her hazel eyes—to Cal it feels like she’s about to take pity on him. He doesn’t want that.

            “So what if I was?”

            “I didn’t want you to,” she says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her apron pocket. “Do you smoke?”

            Cal shakes his head and shivers. Compared to back home in Calgary, it seems like almost everybody smokes. He can’t even walk five blocks to the university without walking through a miasma of old men smoking on the piazza in the morning, and it drives him insane.

            “We should go downstairs,” she says, putting a cigarette between her lips.

            “No! I need to do this, okay?! I can’t handle it anymore! I’d rather be—”

            “You would rather be taken back to America in a body bag? You would rather your mother got a phone call saying her son jumped off a roof and died?”

            Cal goes silent. A shiver wracks his spine. His mother back home is more focused on her job as a publicist than she is on him or his sister. When was the last time he called her? Four weeks ago? Five? It was before he and his friends went to Florence, at least. She hasn’t made a peep in return, either.

            “As if she would care.”

            “Somebody would,” the woman says. She tries to light her cigarette, rolling her thumb against the lighter one, two, three times. It’s no good; in this rain it doesn’t even spark. “Why don’t we go across the street? I run that restaurant down there.”

            Standing up, Cal stares at her. Her auburn hair is slowly starting to stick to her face, and he can see the crow’s feet set against her eyes. She was beautiful once, maybe about ten years ago. Now there were nicks on her hands from chopped vegetables and a mole near her nose, and a look in her eyes like she had been around the block a few more times than him.

            “A… alright,” he says. “But you haven’t changed my mind.”

            “Whatever you say,” she says, sticking her unlit cigarette in her pocket. “What did you say your name was, young man?”

            “Cal Assourdi. And I’m Canadian, not American.”

            She gives him a half-smile and opens the door, ushering him back into the apartment building. “Call me Octavia.”

              Octavia Rizzo, as Cal later learns, indeed runs an Italian restaurant-pizzeria that he passes almost every time he goes to buy groceries. Though it’s fifteen minutes past closing time—and her employees are quick to remind her of it—she shoos them out for the evening, telling them in rapid Italian that they can go home; she’ll take care of this last customer for the evening.

            Her hazel eyes never leave him for more than four seconds, even when she’s in the kitchen.

            Still shaking slightly, Cal stares down at the checkered tablecloth and stares at the grain of the wooden panel on the wall. He notices that there are only thirteen tables inside, but then remembers that there were also some under the eaves outside.

When she pulled him away from that ledge, Octavia had stretched his sweatshirt, leaving marks where her fingers had pulled along the fabric. His wet jeans and wet shirt made him feel tinier than he was.

            Thunder claps outside. Sliding a plate full of gnocchi in a dark red tomato sauce in front of him, Octavia slides into the seat on the other side of the table from him. Blinking and staring at the gnocchi for a moment, she remains silent.

            Cal stabs one of the gnocchi with his fork and slowly lets it slip into his mouth. It warms up his tongue and then the flavor of fresh garlic and basil take over, carrying him through the process of swallowing. Nothing has tasted like this in a long time. After a moment, he repeats the motion, his nerves finally beginning to settle.

            “Do you want to talk about why you were up there?” Octavia asks.

            He stares at her. Chances are that he’s going to see her again on his way to class, probably more than once. As much as he wants to—no, needs to—talk about what had brought him up there, it was buried under nearly seven years of disguises. Seven years of hiding like a spy, or pretending to be a knight, or acting as stone cold as a statue had brought him here, all while he was sitting there with his unannounced secrets, waiting for his parents to notice the looks in his eyes or the nightmares he’s been having.

            Octavia doesn’t need to know about the nightmares. She doesn’t need to know why he never wants to go back to that park across the street from his house despite the fact that all of the kids took pictures before the formals there, and she didn’t need to know what he saw when he was thirteen. People always used to come every spring after finals in their formals, taking pictures before the big event, but that’s not her business. Nor are the GM and the Toyota he saw crash into each other head-on, sending one girl flying onto the hood and leaving two others slumped against the dashboards and the steering wheels. Octavia doesn’t need to know that he could see the vacant look in that girl’s eyes, or the fact that her up-do was matted down by her own blood. She doesn’t need to know anything. Nobody else does.

            “Cal.” Her voice goes up almost an entire octave when she says his name. She passes him a napkin. “Here, you’re crying.”

            “You don’t need to know why!”

            “I don’t,” she says. “If you want to tell me, that is your choice. It might help you though.”

            He takes the napkin and wipes his eyes, still watching her with wariness.

            “When my husband died three years ago, it really helped me when I was able to talk about it.” She sets one arm on the table and pushes a piece of her hair back. “It happened so suddenly that I didn’t know what to do at first. Some of my friends and my sister-in-law and I, we all talked about it. We told stories about him and talked about him, and it helped us. I think it could help you too.”

            Cal looks over at her, silent for a moment. “How did he die?”

            “I… ah, I don’t know what the word is in English. It is a disease of the brain and we could not catch it in time before it killed him.” She lets out a deep sigh. “It came on so suddenly, it was unbelievable.”

            He looks down, taking another bite of the gnocchi in spite of himself and his prior plans. Maybe, he thought, she would understand. Still, he wants to know more about her—was running this restaurant something she had wanted to do, or did she think it was her duty as a widow?

            “And you took over this place for him?”

            She raises her eyebrow at him. “This restaurant was mine to begin with. He did much more of the cooking than I did, but it was my idea to put up a restaurant here. It has been staying afloat for almost five years so far.”

            “And you’ve been doing it all on your own?” he asks, swallowing another gnocchi.

            She nods. “It has… been difficult since he died. I used to manage the restaurant and the staff, and he took care of the money. Now I have to manage the finances and everything else, too.”

            He looks up at her. “Haven’t you hired anyone to help you manage the finances?”

            “Unfortunately, I had to release the woman who worked for me last week,” she says. “She had used our credit to buy herself new furniture and an apartment in the suburbs.”

            Cal blinks. He had been studying business and finance back in Calgary and had come out to Roma Tre to learn it while he studies abroad. As illegal as he knows it is for him to even think about working for her, he knows he can probably give her some tips.

            “I’m studying finance,” he says. “Maybe I can—”

            “You probably are forbidden from legally working here,” she interjects.

            “Let me finish. Maybe I can help you by giving you financial tips. I won’t touch your stuff; it’ll just be you doing it and me telling you what to do.”

            Thus begins the start of a beautiful deal.